A Wolf and a Weed
by Luke1813
Summary: Have you ever wondered how I - the Continent's most famous lover, minstrel, and bard - first met that surly, white-haired witcher? Well, then, read on, my friends.


A Wolf and a Weed

_Gulet, 1250_

"Unhand me, you scoundrels!" I demanded. "Unhand me this instant! You're _wrinkling_ my doublet!"

The jailors were not only uncouth scoundrels, but they were clearly deaf and dumb, as well. For, not only did they not release me, they guffawed like a couple of jack-asses and continued marching me down the hall – the tips of my fine, suede shoes barely touching the stone floor.

"Thomas J. Filhiger, himself, designed this ensemble! And I will not have it begrimed by the likes of you!"

One of the ruffians chuckled.

"Did ya 'ear that, Rufus?" We're begriming Mr. Gilgieger's fancy duds."

'It's 'Filhiger!'"

"Oh, well, a thousand pardons, Guv'nor," said Rufus, a moment before taking out a key and unlocking a heavy, metal door. Once the door was open, they again picked me up underneath my arms and carried me further into the pungent bowels of the constable's jail.

My appeals to good manners were clearly not getting through their thick skulls so I decided to try another tactic.

"My good gentleman, you obviously do not know just who you have in your presence," I said as we passed several jail cells on my both left and right. Cells that were mostly filled with - what I guessed to be - passed-out revelers from the city's annual, summertime festival. "It is none other than I, Julian Alfred Pancrantz – distinguished graduate of Oxenfurt Academy – Master of the Seven Liberal Arts – minstrel, philosopher, and poet extraordinaire."

I looked into their faces but saw no hint of recognition.

"I entertained at Duke Karkarov's court this past spring! I'm famous!"

Again, nothing from the two, which shouldn't have shocked me. They were clearly members of the unwashed, uneducated, and unsophisticated rabble.

We finally came to the last cell, and they dropped me to me feet. While Rufus held me by the back of my collar, his foul-smelling companion unlocked the wrought iron door.

"Wakey, wakey, Whitey! We've got some company for ya!"

With that, I was unceremoniously thrown into the cell, and the door slammed shut behind me. I quickly turned back to my captors.

"Wait! Wait! I've got money," I whispered loudly as I approached the bars of the cell.

They had just begun to walk away when that announcement stopped them in their tracks. They looked at one another, at me, and then stepped up close.

"Is that right?"

"He's lying, Bert," said Rufus. "We frisked him. He had nothing on him but a few coins, those scrolls, and that fiddle."

"It's a lute, my good man," I corrected him. I then came closer, grasping the iron bars with my hands. "And, of course, I don't have it _on_ me, but I can get it. My father is the Viscount of Lettenhove. I am a noble, sir."

Rufus guffawed once again.

"If you's nobility, then I've got a royal cock. So, why don't you kneel down and pay homage to it, Viscount?"

"No, no, it's true. My family has accounts at every Vivaldi bank in the Northern kingdoms. Let's just pay a visit to the one here in the city. They'll vouch for me."

Rufus narrowed his eyes while Bert licked his lips. They then turned and looked at one another for a moment.

"A'right, Rat-pants," said Bert. "We'll-"

"It's Pancrantz."

"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Viscount. We'll tell Constable Kirks. He might be willing to give you a fine instead of the lashings."

"Well, excellent! I knew you were sensible gentlemen the moment I set eyes on you. I had no doubt that we could come to an understanding. So, then, just open the door, and let's go see Constable Kirks."

"No doing, Guv'nor. He's out of town. Won't return until day after tomorrow. You'll have to wait until then."

"Two days! But that's unacceptable. I can't stay in here," I exclaimed, motioning my hands and looking around the dank cell. "I had accommodations at the Hotel Paradaizo."

"Yeah, well, now you're at the Hotel Piss 'n Shit. Hope you'll enjoy your stay."

And with that, the two cretins laughed and walked away.

"My mother will hear about this! And she won't be happy!" I jerked on the bars of the door, causing it to rattle. "I'm her favorite, and she is quite formidable when angry!"

"In the name of all things good and holy, will you shut the hell up?" came a low, gravelly voice behind me.

I spun around but couldn't see the speaker. The only illumination came from behind me – a single, lit lantern hanging on the wall on the other side of the metal bars. My new, temporary home was shrouded in shadows, but I was able to detect the outline of a man lying supine on the left bunk of the ten-foot by ten-foot square cell. He had one arm draped over his face, covering his eyes.

At the other end of the cell, I could just make out a large, wooden bucket, and that's when the smell truly hit me. Oh, dear – they didn't actually expect us to perform our bodily functions while crouching not two feet from an absolute stranger, did they? And what about our meals? Surely, we wouldn't be forced to dine just paces away from that noxious filth. What did they think we were – brutish beasts in the fields? I quickly turned back around and began shaking the cell door again.

"Mr. Rufus! Mr. Bert! Come back! There's been a terrible mistake! This simply won't do! Surely, we can come to some arrangement!"

Suddenly, I heard the bunk squeak behind me. I twirled around to see a giant shadow heading my way.

"What do you not understand about the words, 'Shut up'?" said the man in the shadows.

His face was still in the darkness, but he was tall and clearly elderly – his white locks just barely visible in the dim light from the lantern.

"Well, now, see here, old timer, I know that you may be quite comfortable with these borderline barbaric accommodations – I have no doubt that they're a step-up from your usual home – but there's no need to be rude. It costs nothing to be civil, my mother always says."

The man took another step forward – into the light - and I sucked in my breath. His eyes. He had cat-like eyes.

"By the gods, man, you're a witcher, did you know that?"

He furrowed his brow.

"Yeah. I'm _very_ aware."

I then noticed that he was moving his eyes up and down, a quizzical look on his face. I smiled, for I was quite accustomed to the reaction. He was obviously admiring my attire, and, I mean, who wouldn't? My black shoes were of the finest suede. The calf-skin leather pants were dyed a deep forest green. I wore a matching green, silk shirt, with puffed cuffs and collar. And the piece-de-resistance was a crushed-velvet doublet that was an eye-catching, bright yellow. Completing my finery was a matching yellow beret, sitting rakishly atop my head and sporting a single, elegant peacock feather. I'll admit, the ensemble was one of my more subtle outfits, but it was still quite stylish.

"What the _hell_ are you supposed to be?" asked the witcher. "You a carney?"

"Oh, please," I scoffed. "Carnivals are for the unwashed masses. No Oxenfurt graduate would ever be caught dead plying their trade in a carnival. They'd rescind my degree."

"Well, whatever you are, just shut up, already. You sound like a screeching harpy."

"Of all the nerve! I have been told by numerous, charming ladies that I have the voice of an angel."

He then eyed me up and down once more. "And you look ridiculous."

Oh no! Insulting my voice was one thing, but my looks! That was too far!

"How _dare_ you! This, sir, is a Thomas J. Filhiger! The finest designer and haberdasher in all the North! This outfit probably costs more than everything you own!"

"Yeah? Then, you got swindled. You look like a dandelion."

"Outrageous!" I yelled, pointing a finger to the sky.

I was about to give him the severest of tongue lashings when, like a lightning bolt cracking across the sky, his words really hit me. I blinked my eyes several times and stood there, dumbstruck. He stared at me for a moment, before shaking his head, turning around, and lying back down on his bunk.

It is said that out of the mouths of babes comes truth and wisdom. Well, apparently, out of the mouth of unrefined, surly witchers comes inspiration. I slowly sat down on the bunk across from him, a small smile coming to my face.

"That's it," I whispered.

He removed his forearm from his face and peered at me like a had a horn growing out of my head.

"What's what?"

"My nom de plume."

"Your what?"

"My pen name, my stage name. All great minstrels have one. You don't actually think Willy Pakesshear uses his real name, do you? Ah, who am I kidding? I doubt you even know who the man is."

The witcher then sat up in his bunk.

"Of course, I know who he is. I'm not some rube."

But I was no longer listening to the rube. I was saying the name over and over in my head. Dandelion. Dandelion. It was glorious.

"All the most famous artists, poets, and singers have a nom de plume. And the elite? Well, the elite are simply known by a single name. And, now…now, I can finally join them."

I then brought my focus back to the man sitting across from me.

"It's why I haven't yet become famous, witcher. It's the only explanation. It can't be due to my talent."

"Or your humility."

"No man, woman, or child would ever weep over the poems of Julian Alfred Pancrantz…but the poems of Dandelion? Oh, listen to that, witcher. Dandelion. It just rolls off the tongue."

"Wait a minute – for your fake name you're choosing '_Dandelion_'?"

"Of course! It's perfect! It sums me up to a T. I'm obviously stylish. I dress like a dapper dandy. And I have the courage of a lion. 'Dandy lion,' get it? Oh, I can't thank you enough, witcher! For over a year now, since before I even left Oxenfurt, I've been wracking my brain – trying to craft the perfect pseudonym. And, who would've guessed – right here, in this shit-smelling jail cell, it comes to _you_!"

"Pretty fitting, then. Because it's a shit idea. You do realize that a dandelion is a weed, right?"

I laughed out loud.

"Oh my! You jest, witcher. You jest!" I chuckled again. "A witcher with a sense of humor. I've never heard of such. Of course, it's not a weed, you silly man. A dandelion is a hearty, prolific, and vibrantly beautiful flower that gives joy to thousands. Just like me! It can even be used to make wine. And I _adore_ wine! So, how perfect is that?!"

He must have been in awe because he couldn't say a word. He just stared at me, shaking his head.

"I'll be forever grateful to you, witcher. And now, let me formally introduce myself. I am Julian Alfred Pancratz, son of the Viscount of Lettenhove, and soon to be known as Dandelion."

I then stuck out my hand.

"And you are?" I queried.

"Me? I'm annoyed. Now, shut up, Buttercup."

And with that, he laid back down on the bunk and rolled over onto his side – showing me his back.

"No, no. Not Buttercup. It's Dandelion."

"Whatever," growled the witcher.

oOo

Author's Note: I've always wondered a bit (1.) just how Julian got his nickname and (2.) exactly how Dandelion and Geralt first met. (Frankly, I'm also a little curious as to why they're even friends at all.) And then, one day, this scene popped into my head. I know that it's not 100% canon compliant, but I still enjoyed writing it. Though, to be honest, writing from the point of view of a young Dandelion was quite the challenge - especially, given that I'm not naturally very funny. Despite that, hopefully, I was able to capture his essence. I guess you can be the judge of that. Regardless, blessings to you and yours.


End file.
